Friday, September 22, 2017

airminded | The 'aeros' themselves look not much like any real airships that flew
later; they are more spherical than elongated and so not streamlined.
(It's tempting to read the image at the top of this post as showing an
airship from the front and below, but comparing it with his other
paintings in fact it's a side, or 'Flanck' in Dellschau's idiosyncratic
English, view.) Then there's the 'Lifting Fluid', suppa, with its
wonderful properties. There are only a few possible lifting gases, and the only ones not discovered by the 1850s are neon (which is only just viable) and (much better) helium,
both of which are very rare on Earth and difficult to extract. It's
conceivable that they could have been discovered earlier than we
currently believe, but it would require a substantial of resources to
produce enough for use in airships (as is well known, Germany was forced
to use hydrogen for its airships in the 1930s due to a US embargo on
helium exports). And again, we would then have to accept that this
discovery was then forgotten for decades, like the secret of the aeros
themselves. The improbabilities are piling up alarmingly.

[Dellschau] illustrates a remarkable number of designs --
maybe as many as 100 -- for airships with names such as Aero Mio, Aero
Trump, Aero Schnabel and Aero Mary. (There's even an Aero Jourdan.) All
were powered by a secret formula that Dellschau called both "supe" and
"suppe"; it could both negate gravity and drive the ships' wheels, side
paddles and compressor motors.

One drawing tells the story of Adolf Goetz's Aero Goeit, recklessly
commandeered by an unskilled pilot; the airship got tangled in a Sequoia
tree, and the interloper died of a broken neck. Another cautionary tale
involves Jacob Mischer, a pilot who went down in flames in the Aero
Gander; Dellschau hints that he was sabotaged by other club members, who
suspected him of using the aircraft to make money by hauling cargo.

But most of the airships' flights were safe -- and great fun.
Dellschau depicts his aviators enjoying hot breakfasts, and delights in
enumerating the ships' clever gadgets. He often bedecked his watercolor
paintings with little press clippings -- from Scientific American, the
Houston Chronicle and an unidentified German-language newspaper -- that
recount air disasters; Dellschau called them "press blooms." Against
paintings of the Sonora club's successes, the clippings seem intended as
an ironic counterpoint.

Dellschau never seems to explain why the club worked so hard to
protect its secrecy, but he shows the members going to great lengths to
do so. By day, the Aero Goeit was disguised as a gypsy wagon, so it
could travel open roads undetected. Dellschau writes that a club member
was banned from developing a machine because he'd talked to outsiders.
And of course, even years after the club disbanded, many of Dellschau's
own comments are rendered in code. Apparently, whatever it was that he
had to say was too private even for his own notebooks.

The first and most obvious thing to note is that the capabilities of
these aircraft are far in advance of the technology of the day. The first airship flight was made by Henri Giffard
in France in 1852; with only three horsepower and a speed of about six
miles an hour it was unable to fly into the wind. His subsequent
attempts to build bigger and more powerful airships failed. A decade
later, in what is perhaps the closest known parallel to Dellschau's
Aeros, Solomon Andrews flew the Aereon,
a weird balloon/airship hybrid with three gas envelopes, over Perth
Amboy, New Jersey. At about the same time, according to Dellschau, the
Sonora Aero Club had perfected controlled, powered, lighter-than-air
flight and many
of its machines were secretly flying in California's skies -- after
which they disappeared, leaving no trace in the documentary record. This
is incredible and in fact not credible.